


You're a church, I'm on my knees

by d1sclosure



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega's are Delta's, Steter Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 19:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d1sclosure/pseuds/d1sclosure
Summary: “Why, Stiles,” Peter says without turning around and tension thickens the air, interposed with his incredulity.  “Are you inheat?”Stiles groans miserably.  The noise is muffled and Peter spars half a thought to the idea that the boy’s buried his head in his hands but mostly he’s trying to understand why Stiles has come here—come to him—when he is…what does he even call this?  Afflicted?  Indisposed?Torturously sexed up and wanting?“Yes,” the delta hisses between clenched teeth.  “And it is all your fault, youasshole.”





	You're a church, I'm on my knees

“This is all your fault,” Stiles tells him without hesitation as he shoulders his way inside.

Peter blinks, taken off-guard. “Hello, Stiles,” he says, voice dripping with an affected affability. “How lovely to see you. I’m fine, thank you for asking.” By now, Stiles has disappeared around the edge of the dividing wall and Peter can hear him cluttering around in the living-room He follows after him, if only to make sure he doesn’t trip over the carpet and brain himself on the coffee-table. “Please, do come in and make yourself at home.”

The glare Stiles pins on him would be enough to make a weaker man voluntarily climb into his own coffin after picking out his floral arrangements.

As it is, Peter cocks an unimpressed eyebrow and crosses his arms.

He haunted Lydia. He can put up with a little murderous glowering.

“Cut the crap, Peter,” Stiles snaps and _oh_ does he like the way Stiles says his name. It’s like ambrosia and aconite all at once, sounding so sweetly as it’s spat out.

Sighing, Peter drops his stance and steps closer, thinking that if they are really going to do this now—and no, he’s not going to bother with simply asking what’s wrong—he might as well be close enough to enjoy the full frontal attack. But, instead of holding his place, Stiles steps back. His eyes drop to watch Peter’s feet in alarm and his arms wrap around his torso as though they’re the only things holding him together.

How _interesting_.

“Do not,” Stiles begins, eyes lifting to narrow at Peter, “come any closer. I am literally about five seconds away from committing grievous bodily harm. Don’t push me.”

Peter really, _really_ wants to push.

Damn his conflicting sense of self-preservation.

“Fine,” he huffs and (tactfully) increases the distance between them a full half-step. See? He can be considerate. “Tea?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles spits. Then, after a split-second consideration: “And yes. Please. Thank you.”

The urge to roll his eyes is strong, with this one.

Deciding it best to say nothing, Peter nods and turns, fully intending to walk towards the kitchen. However, moving kicks up a waft of air and the scent carried by it, finally, drifts by his noise and his body shocks to a stop.

Stiles makes a sound a little like a dying cat feebly crawling the last few paces to safety. Peter ignores him. He sniffs delicately at the air. 

He hadn’t noticed before, but now that he’s looking for it…

There’s a unique scent he’s come to associate solely with Stiles. With all the roughhousing the beta’s get up to, it’s inevitable they all smell vaguely alike, but not Stiles. Never Stiles, who smells like wet loam after a good rain and citrus and the copper tang of blood he never seems able to wash clean, all underwritten with the nauseating taint of Adderall.

It’s not the same. It’s… different. Changed. Spicier. It’s… mouthwatering is what it is. 

“Why, Stiles,” Peter says without turning around and tension thickens the air, interposed with his incredulity. “Are you in _heat_?”

Stiles groans miserably. The noise is muffled and Peter spars half a thought to the idea that the boy’s buried his head in his hands but mostly he’s trying to understand why Stiles has come here—come to him—when he is…what does he even call this? Afflicted? Indisposed? 

Torturously sexed up and wanting?

And look, Peter will be the first to toot his own horn. He’s built like a fucking god and he knows it, just. Why? _Why_???

There’s been no precursor for this. Yes, he knocks out innuendoes like they are dime-novel bodice-rippers going out of fashion but never once, in all their interactions, has Stiles ever done anything to suggest that he might honestly be interested in Peter in _that way_.

(And no. The faint and frequent scent of arousal does not count. He likes his concession verbal and auditorily witnessed. Less confusion that way.)

Apparently, he is motionless for too long because the next thing he knows, Stiles is stomping over, circling him and poking him furiously.

“Yes,” the delta hisses between clenched teeth, and now that Peter’s looking for it, he wonder’s how he missed it in the first place. The flush on his neck, the fast breathing. The blown pupils. He swallows and forced down the urge to _bite_. “Yes, I am in heat. In. Heat,” Stiles emphasizes slowly and with great feeling, then he rushes through the next part, half hysterical and wildly outraged, arms flailing: “And it is all your fault, you _asshole_.”

“How is any of this my fault?” Peter demands, gesturing between them. 

Stiles’ expression hardens and Peter feels that whatever he says next will rival the gods final judgement.

“You’ve been touching me,” Stiles says accusingly. “All the time. You touch my arms and my legs and you wipe your stupid face over my clothes and all I can smell is _you_—do you have any idea what that’s like? My heat’s fucking _suck_, okay? But normally I can deal with it. Normally, I can lock myself up in my bedroom and play hide the salami without any _interruptions_. Normally, I don’t have your stupid fucking scent on my sheets and in my bed because _normally_ I don’t have people breaking into my room and hugging me all the time!”

Well. When he put it like _that_…

“I had no idea—”

“Oh my god! Did you do it on _purpose_?!”

“Yes,” Peter replies drily, eyebrows derisive and communicating _really?_ better than words ever good. “You’ve got me. I tricked you into being my sole source of physical contact with the intention of hijacking your heat. Congratulations. You solved my evil plan. Mwuah ha ha.” He brought his wrists together. “What will it be, Officer? Chains or shackles?”

The way Stiles eyes him, Peter would bet good money that the thought currently spinning through that pretty head is something along the lines of, _what kind of idiot…?_

Unfortunately, a Stiles in heat is a Stiles that does not appreciate sarcasm.

With a muttered, vindicated, “I knew it,” Stiles lunges forward. Eye’s widening at the sudden turn of events, Stiles manages to get in several good swings—and good grief, those _claws_—before Peter reacts. Some wayward fumbling and a good deal of hissing later, and Peter honestly couldn’t explain _how_, but he’s managed to wrestle the delta and reverse their positions, so that he’s got Stiles’ wrists in a tight grip and his chest is pressed firmly against Stiles’ back.

Like this, he’s reminded of the inch or so Stiles has on him and can only thank his werewolf physiology and age for giving him the advantage, bulk-wise.

He’s tense, trying to catch his breath. The rapid, over-eager flutter of Stiles’ heart thrums against his chest and this close, all he can smell is the musk the delta is putting off—all the better to entice you, _alpha dear_. His nose is clogged full of it, drugging in it’s intensity. With no conscious decision on his part, he pushes his nose into Stiles neck and inhales deeply. Deep in his chest, he rumbles.

It takes him an inexcusably long time to realize Stiles is no longer fighting him.

With a hitched breath, Stiles whines from deep in his throat. His clenched fists uncurl. His body drains of violence like a marionette cut free from it’s strings and set free. His groans then, defeated, almost, and let’s his head drop back onto Peter’s shoulder at the same time as he pushes back into Peter’s hips and that’s when Peter knows.

He gentles his hold, no longer restraining as much as it is supporting. He smiles; a warm thing and one that he hides in Stiles’ barred throat.

He darts his tongue out and licks the salt from Stiles flushed skin.

The sound Stiles makes…he wants to bottle it, hide away and keep it safe.

Best part? It’s all _his_.

“God, I hate you so much,” Stiles groans as Peter’s hands wander, one settling on Stiles waist and the other on his stomach. Stiles needs no convincing to tangle their fingers together.

Peter sucks and lathes until he’s left a mark that, if it knows what’s good for it, won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, before he responds. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes and perhaps he bit a little too hard. Stiles rocks back more firmly, though, and he’s humming, swaying slightly from left to right, so Peter figures he doesn’t mind. “I _should_ hate you so much.”

“That’s better.”

Stiles huffs a broken laugh and turns around, settling once they are face to face. “You’re such a dick,” Stiles tells him and Peter, hand having fallen lower, squeezes his ass (and what a nice ass it is). Stiles hisses, eyes clenching shut, then he surges forward. He licks into Peter’s mouth, completely bypassing, you know, _lips_ and all those other useless window dressings.

Peter goes with it. There’ll be time for sweet kisses later.

Enthusiasm does not an inexhaustive source of oxygen make, however, so they are eventually forced to part. 

Stiles breathes hard. Lips dark and wet, the flush has crawled up his cheeks and he looks utterly _wrecked_. Peter is sure he looks no better.

“I want your dick,” Stiles then says, idle in a way that suggests he has other things on his mind.

Peter smirks. “Okay.”

“And then,” Stiles continues, “We’re going to _fuck_.” He bites the word off on Peter’s lip. Peter growls and tugs him impossibly closer, totally on board with this plan.

Another handful of minutes are lost in each other, then Stiles plants his hand on Peter’s cheek and pushes him away.

He regards him for a long, tense moment. Through sheer force of will, Peter holds still. He is more than aware of the significance of the occasion. For Christ’s sake, they aren’t even properly _together_ together and yet here they are, five seconds and a dozen bits of clothes away from sharing a heat. If Stiles wants to discuss it, Peter is certainly not going to stop him.

Amber eyes flicker between his, looking for something. Whatever it is, Stiles must find it because he relaxes, ridding himself of a residual tension Peter hadn’t even been aware of, and his scent blossoms fully. Warm and soft. Giddy, almost. Free from any sourness or bitter after-taste.

“What are you waiting for?” Stiles asks then, grinning mischievously. His hand, where it had been clutching the back of Peter’s shirt in a white-knuckled grip, drops down to his ass with a solid _thwack_. “Take me to bed, _alpha_.”

And Peter _does_.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoop, there it is. My second actually-no-reservations-completed work to date.
> 
> . . .I might add all the sex at a later date. *Sighs* I ran out of time.


End file.
